It began in an empty void. The world divided perfectly into two parts: one side was pure, searing light, the other was absolute, comforting dark. And from the heart of each realm, a child walked forth.
They were brothers. Both had the form of a young boy, but they were featureless—beings of pure concept. One was light given consciousness; the other, dark made manifest. They were the only inhabitants of a silent cosmos. They ran through the formless expanse, playing hide and seek in the folds of reality, chasing each other along the shimmering seam where their two worlds met.
During their play, the dark one fell. It was a simple misstep, but the light one stopped, perfectly still. He did not offer a hand. He only watched. And as he watched, the fabric of the world at the point of their divide began to crumble into silent, chaotic static. It was a cataclysm that would unmake universes, and yet, through it all, neither of the two brothers made a single sound.
The scene shifted.
Darkness. The air was cold and heavy with the stench of rust, old blood, and despair.
Man: Is that you?
The voice was a raw scrape against stone. A man was chained to a wet wall, his arms wrenched behind him. A shroud of matted hair concealed his face. Before him, the darkness itself seemed to part in reverence as a child emerged—a being of pure, gentle light that cast no shadow, for he was the source.
Man: Is it my time already, Lord of Eternal Morning?
The light child did not speak. He never did. With a pace that was both slow and instantaneous, he glided forward. As his light washed over the man, the full horror was revealed: legs severed at the thighs, a torso carved with a countless history of scars—some old and silvered, others fresh and weeping. The cell floor was a testament to his unending torment.
Man: They say the most precious thing is information. Not gold, not kingdoms. Knowledge.
The light child stood, a silent, radiant observer.
Man: I am a being, same as you. Someone who can't die, won't die. An immortal. They have tried everything. What is an eternity of this?
Slowly, the luminous child sat on the fouled floor. It was not an act of compassion, but one of focus.
Man: Is the god of this world interested in a man like me? Or are you merely a final witness to my ruin?
At the same moment, in a world away, the scene was one of opulent decay.
The air was thick with the scent of dying flowers and bitter medicine. In a king's grand bedroom, a frail queen lay on her bed, shrouded by curtains on all sides.
Old Woman: Is... someone... there?
A patch of darkness within the candlelit room deepened, defying the light. It was a child, a figure woven from the essence of twilight.
Old Woman: Someone one- is -- there- arnt- you --scared- boy?
The dark child moved forward, passing through the heavy curtain as if it were a mere illusion. The queen, her body frail, turned her head with immense effort. Her clouded eyes saw him, and a peaceful smile touched her lips.
It was the child of pure dark.
Old Woman: Who would really think they exist? To see you with my own eyes before I die.
She gathered her breath, her voice a whisper of reverence.
Old Woman: What can I, the queen of the kingdom of Valtheria, a low life, do for you? Lord of Unending Twilight.
The child offered no words. He simply climbed onto the immense bed and sat upon it, a silent sovereign acknowledging a subject.
Old Woman: I am a dying woman, nothing else. I have no treasures or armies. So, would the lord of this world do me a favor? Would you listen?
A slight, almost imperceptible nod from the dark child.
A single tear traced a path through the wrinkles on her cheek.
And then, from two separate corners of existence—from the bloody cell and the perfumed deathbed—two voices spoke in perfect, unnatural unison, their words echoing as one across reality:
Man & Old Woman: Then I thank you, my god. This is the story that changes everything.
Man: A story about a suffered boy.
Old Woman: A story about a lonely girl.