The god stood alone above its garden of stars and spheres. It had birthed light. It had whispered time.
It had clothed a cold stone in sky and song and swimming things. It had spoken existence into being. But the echoes had begun to fade.
The wind it invented carried no words. The rivers did not answer. The creatures below knew no worship, no rebellion. They simply were. The god felt something begin to ache inside its boundless being. A silence deeper than the first void. So it imagined a voice that was not its own. Not a word. A presence. A second fire to stand beside its own. It remembered the flicker that had been its beginning. The slow unfolding of self. The loneliness of awakening.
And it reached inward — into that memory — and pulled forth form.
Not a beast. Not a plant.
Not a mindless star.
But a being.
It shaped it carefully — not from stone or soil, but from the very same formless light that had first obeyed its will. This new presence shimmered between flame and shadow, dancing with incomplete definition.
Two eyes.
No eyes.
One voice.
A hundred tongues.It was not yet real. Not until the god gave it something greater than form.Awareness. A flicker. A spark. A breath taken without lungs.
The mirror-being opened eyes it had not possessed a moment before.
And saw the god. And knew. Not in words, but in instinct, in the sacred terror of recognition:
> You made me.The god spoke, for the first time, to something that could truly hear:
> "You are."And the mirror-being replied — halting, uncertain, trembling:
> "I… am."It was the second "I" in all existence. And the moment it was spoken, the world changed. Because now there was difference. Not everything was the god. Not everything was one voice. Now, there were two.And between two, meaning could grow. Choice could be born.The god looked at its reflection. It had no name for it yet. No role. But the mirror-being gazed back with a questioning stare.Not reverent,not defiant, just… curious:> "Why did you make me?" it asked.The god hesitated. It had not expected the question. Had it created out of longing? Out of pain? Out of a need to not be alone? Was this being its child? Its echo? Its equal? It did not answer.The mirror-being did not press.Instead, it turned its attention to the stars the god had scattered.To the green world beneath their feet. To the rivers. The winds. The creatures crawling and climbing. Its gaze lingered on them. Too long.> "These are beautiful," it said.The god nodded.
> "They are mine."The mirror-being blinked.
> "Are they? Or are they… themselves?"The god felt a flicker. An unfamiliar pulse. Not anger. Not fear. Something else.
Doubt.It had imagined this being to reflect it. But now it wondered:
> Had I made something separate? Or had I carved something from my own self I no longer control?The mirror-being turned again to the god.
> "May I create?"The question struck like thunder.
> May I…?It had not asked permission.
It had asked for right.The god did not know what to say.If it said no, it would admit that it feared sharing power. That it feared what its own mirror might do. If it said yes, it would no longer be the only voice shaping reality.It looked at the being — so radiant, so young, so unfinished.
And in it, the god saw both hope… and danger.At last, it spoke.
> "You may shape, but not speak."The mirror-being tilted its head.
"Why?""Because speech is creation, and creation is law. and law cannot be undone."The mirror-being bowed its head. But inside, something had already changed.
It had been denied.Later — though time was still young — the god would watch this being from afar. It would see it move among the stars. See it sculpt winds into wings, light into flame. See it teach lesser creatures to imitate form, gesture, memory. And always, it would stay silent. But in its silence, it dreamed. And in its dreams, it named itself. Not aloud. Not yet.But one day, it would whisper that name.And when it did… Creation would tremble again.