Before the first heartbeat of time, before sound or breath, there was stillness. Not peace, not absence — a stillness that stretched across everything, holding its breath as though waiting for the first mistake to arrive.
Then came the pulse.
It was not sound, not noise, but a vibration that rippled through the void, subtle and uncertain. From that pulse, two lights flickered — fragile at first, then solidifying, trembling with curiosity. The first light was Aetherion, radiant and commanding, a being of order, of will, and of fire that burned without consuming. The second was Lysera, delicate yet infinite, born of motion and song, a light warm enough to cradle the shadows that lingered even in nothingness.
They were the first and the last of their kind — gods before gods were imagined, hearts born from the yearning of the universe to know itself.
For endless eons, they danced across the void. Every step of Aetherion's stride shaped reality — mountain ridges carved through clouds of dust, stars flared and spiraled like sparks from a forge. Every note of Lysera's voice filled the void with color: the red of birth, the blue of calm, the gold of promise. Together, they did not create as one commands, but as one sings — crafting a living melody that could breathe, shift, and remember.
When the first worlds settled into being, rivers ran, winds found rhythm, and time measured itself in tentative heartbeats. Aetherion looked upon their creation and admired it. Lysera, her song soft and patient, smiled as she observed the slow unfolding of life.
But they were not satisfied.
Love eternal, they learned, begins to crave reflection. And so, with pride and longing entwined, they fashioned a world unlike any other: the Verdant Flame. A realm alive in ways that startled even its creators. Its soil whispered with thought, its skies shimmered with awareness, and creatures moved with volition, not command. This was a world of freedom. A world of unpredictable beauty.
Lysera adored it. She descended often, shaping flowers that murmured in the wind and oceans that dreamed in quiet tides. Aetherion, proud and watchful, observed with unease.
"It grows without us," he said one day, his voice both marvel and warning.
"Then it is perfect," Lysera replied, eyes soft with wonder.
Aetherion's gaze darkened. "Or dangerous."
Among the world's living forms arose Drazon, neither fully divine nor entirely mortal. He was the embodiment of the Verdant Flame's independence, a creature of fire and earth, shaped by neither creator's command. To Lysera, he was hope — proof that life could love itself. To Aetherion, he was a warning — proof that freedom could slip from even divine hands.
And so, the first fracture began.
When Drazon began to shape the sky without divine instruction, Aetherion descended, a second sun burning across the Verdant Flame. His light fell like judgment, scorching the forests and rivers he had helped create.
"This world forgets who gave it breath," he declared.
Drazon, wings unfurled, stood before him. Calm yet resolute, he answered, "We do not forget. We only choose not to kneel."
Aetherion faltered, disbelief in his brilliance. "You defy me?"
"No," Drazon replied, sorrow threading his voice. "I honor you by showing that what you have made can stand on its own."
Lysera's plea was a fragile song across the void. "Stop," she begged. "He is only what we wished for."
But fear and love share a heartbeat. Aetherion's falter became fire. His light struck the heart of the Verdant Flame, forests igniting, rivers solidifying into glass, skies screaming in collapse.
Drazon reached toward the flames, but they consumed him too, charring his wings and spirit. Lysera rushed to shield what remained, but her tears were too late.
From the ashes, Drazon lifted a handful of the world's ruined heart and scattered it into the wind. He spoke not in anger, not in curse, but in sorrow:
"You made us from love, and killed us with fear."
No vow followed. No reprisal. Only silence lingered, heavy and infinite. Aetherion withdrew, dimming to a whisper. Lysera's song fractured among the stars. The Verdant Flame had burned.
Yet even in ruin, hope persisted.
From the ashes, Lysera sang again. Aetherion offered light. And from their combined lament and longing, a child was born — Aion, small, fragile, but carrying within him both the spark of the gods and the weight of their mistakes.
"He will not rule," Lysera whispered. "He will heal."
Aetherion's voice cracked with guilt. "May he never know what we were."
They wrapped him in cloth woven of silence and moonlight, placing him in a cradle carved from the first stones of the Verdant Flame.
But Drazon watched from beyond the void. His shadow moved among the stars, whispers echoing in silence:
"You birth a son to forget your sins. Then let him remember them through me."
He descended, unseen, carrying the child toward a world untouched by gods — toward Earth, where mortals lived simply, and where Aion's first heartbeat as a human would be a beginning, not an end.
The cradle lay empty when Lysera awoke. Aetherion's roar split the heavens. Galaxies dimmed in grief. But Drazon was already gone, and somewhere, far below, the first human breath mingled with divine memory, waiting for the boy who would one day learn both love and sorrow.
And the universe, silent for eons, whispered again:
"Let this one learn what we could not."