In the beginning, there was only the Void. Yet the Void was not emptiness, for within it stirred the thought of the All Mother, who was all things and none. Her breath was the silence between stars yet unborn, her will the stillness before creation. She was whole, and her wholeness was without beginning or end.
From the heart of her solitude came two lights — one radiant, one tender — born not of flesh, but of her boundless longing to see herself reflected. Thus were the Sisters of Light made: Yuktha, the elder flame, whose heart burned with the power to give life, and Yuwan, the younger reflection, whose gaze softened the fires of her sister and carried their glow across the dark.
For a time beyond time, they were one, their essences entwined, a single soul of perfect balance — blazing and serene. But the All Mother beheld them and spoke, her voice echoing through the void like the first dawn breaking:
"From unity, there is peace, but from division, there is becoming.
Let the light divide that creation may know itself."
And so, by her word, the sisters were sundered. The All Mother breathed upon them, and her breath became the first wind. Through Yuktha, it burned; through Yuwan, it cooled. From that divine breath, the heavens unfolded, and the first light scattered across the void.
Yuktha's flame grew fierce, and her body blazed into the great Sun. She shone with the strength of the All Mother herself, pouring radiance across the darkness. Yet even as she burned, she felt sorrow, for in her brilliance she had lost the quiet closeness of her sister.
Yuwan beheld her sister's light and wept, for she could no longer stand beside her as one. Her tears drifted through the dark until they formed the first reflection — the Moon, pale and pure, that would ever mirror her sister's warmth.
And the All Mother spoke again, saying:
"Blessed are you, my daughters, for through your division the world shall awaken.
One shall shine, and one shall guide.
One shall burn, and one shall heal.
One shall know the power of life, and the other, the sorrow of reflection."
At her word, the world stirred beneath them — stone, sea, and sky awakening beneath the twin lights. Creation trembled and rose from silence, and the rhythm of time began its first breath.
But as the world took form, the sisters felt the weight of what had been lost. Yuktha, radiant and proud, gazed upon the forming lands and said,
"I shall give myself to them, that life may rise from my fire."
And Yuwan, watching from the calm of shadow, whispered,
"Then I shall watch over them, and keep their hearts from the dark."
The All Mother, beholding their love for the fragile world, smiled upon her children.
"So it shall be," she said.
"Through your sacrifice, the world shall live, and through your sorrow, it shall endure.
For light is born not from power, but from pain."
Thus the heavens were set in their order — the Sun reigning by day, the Moon guiding by night — and the balance of light and shadow was written into all things.
And though the sisters shone across the firmament, each knew the ache of separation. The Sun burned with purpose but was lonely in her brilliance; the Moon glowed with grace but mourned her distance.
So began the first longing — the divine ache through which the world was made.