Before there was stone. Before there was sky. Before even the stars rembered to shine, there was silence.
And from that silence, there ca a pulse.
It was not a sound, nor a light, but both — the very thought of existence beating once, twice, then swelling into a rhythm. From that rhythm ca the first shape, and the first shape was the Primordial.
The Primordial was not born, it was. Its body was vast beyond imagining, woven from strands of radiance and fla, each thread humming with creation’s breath. Its eyes were galaxies coiled into orbs, its voice was the shudder of mountains rising from the sea. When it moved, the void bent into rivers, mountains, winds, and suns.
Where the Primordial walked, life unfurled. Flowers bent toward it, seas whispered to it, the infant stars sang in harmony with its steps. It was father and mother, seed and harvest, dawn and dusk. The first beings — those who dwelled closest to its brilliance — bowed, and they nad it not as a king nor a god, but as the Source.
For an age, the Primordial reigned, and all things knew harmony.
But silence never stays pure.
It was from the dark folds left behind, the wounds where light could not seep, that He arose.
No one dared call Him by a na. For to na sothing is to hold it, and He could not be held. He was referred to only in whispers, in trembling tongues that dared not rise above silence.
They called Him Him.
He ca not with fire, nor thunder, nor storm, but with absence. With negation. With the cold refusal of being. His form was not one, but many, shifting as eyes tried to fix upon Him. A cloak of shadow that smothered fla. A void that drank color, drank hope, drank mory. His voice was not a voice but a thousand whispers, each one saying the sa word over and over:
No.
"No life."
"No dawn."
"No song."
"No future."
Where He passed, rivers dried into scars of sand. Where His hand lingered, mountains bowed to dust. Stars collapsed into ashen nothing. And the first beings trembled, for the Primordial’s light seed to wane in His presence.
Thus began the first war.
It was not a war of n, nor steel, nor kingdoms. It was a war of beginnings and endings, of affirmation and negation. The Primordial lifted its hands, and from its chest burst spears of light that blazed across the void, tearing through shadow. Entire constellations ford into soldiers, stars beating like drums of war, marching with swords drawn from the dawn itself.
Him laughed. His laugh was not mirth. It was the sound of temples cracking, of spines snapping, of mothers weeping. And as His cloak stretched across the horizon, endless legions of shadow spilled forth. Each shadow was a nightmare given form — crawling, grasping, swarming — faceless things gnawing on the edges of creation.
The clash shook the heavens.
When the Primordial struck, whole seas of shadow were vaporized in gouts of fla. When Him lifted His hand, light itself bent, curling into ash, and soldiers of fire dissolved into silence.
For a thousand lifetis that were only a heartbeat, they battled. Cities the Primordial had once blessed fell in ruin, their towers lted into rivers of stone. Oceans boiled into steam, their waters turned to storms that lashed the sky. The very stars scread, shattering as their brothers fell.
The Primordial bled.
Its body cracked, spilling rivers of molten light that hissed against the cold abyss. Galaxies poured like blood, staining the void with brilliance. And still, Him pressed forward. His form lood larger, stretching into infinity, until it seed there was no place where shadow did not reach.
The whispers grew louder.
"No."
"No."
"No."
The first beings fell to their knees, covering their ears, clawing their faces. They could not fight the word that devoured will itself. Many broke, their hearts stilling as His whispers hollowed them from within.
It seed that the Primordial would falter, and the void would win.
But then — in the depth of its wounds, in the shudder of its weakening body — the Primordial roared.
It was not a roar of rage. It was the roar of a mother shielding her child. Of a farr protecting his harvest. Of the sky itself declaring it will not end. It was hymn and thunder, psalm and tempest.
From its wounds burst rivers of fire, coiling into serpents of light. They slithered across the battlefield, devouring shadow, their fangs dripping with dawn. The Primordial rose higher, its colossal hands seizing the throat of the darkness itself.
Him writhed. His whispers faltered. The endless no caught in His throat.
And the Primordial spoke.
Its words were not re sound. They were decree. Command. The fabric of existence obeyed.
"You do not belong."
The universe quaked. The syllables cracked stars into shards, split mountains down their roots, froze seas into glass. The words lashed Him deeper than any weapon, severing His cloak, unraveling His shadow.
He scread. His scream was the collapse of suns. His scream was despair itself.
The Primordial raised a spear of light — the last spear, forged of every prayer, every breath, every desperate cry of the beings who yet lived. The spear blazed brighter than ten thousand suns, brighter than the first spark that birthed the world.
And the Primordial cast it.
The spear tore through the void. It pierced Him — the shadow, the cloak, the whispers, the endless refusal. It pierced His core.
And He was gone.
Just like that.
No fading. No lingering. Gone.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was alive.
The first beings rose to their feet. The stars began to hum again, their voices braided into hymns of gratitude. Rivers danced, mountains sang, the seas thundered with applause. The very air shook with celebration, as if creation itself was clapping.
The Primordial stood, its chest heaving, its body fractured with luminous cracks. It raised one vast hand into the air, and though its wounds glowed with agony, it stood victorious.
The war was over.
The world was saved.
And all creation cheered.
—
Avin’s eyes snapped open.
The roar of victory still echoed in his skull, but it was gone. The glory, the hymns, the fire of the Primordial — gone.
In their place, only pain.
His head ached violently, his skull pounding as though the war itself had been fought inside his mind. A high, shrill ringing filled his ears, relentless and sharp. His vision blurred, shapes swimming above him, the dream shattering like glass.
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