Eons ago, there was only life.
Beautiful, isn't it?
WRONG.
It was rampant.
Untamed.
Ravenous.
It spilled across realms of flesh, spirit, and mind, consuming everything in its path.
Mortals grew without limit. Their bodies defied time, danger, and decay.
The earth groaned beneath their steps. Crops withered but never rotted. Forests twisted into endless knots. Beasts that should have perished remained—gaunt, restless, eyes hollow with madness.
Existence festered. There was no balance, only roots without end, bones without rest, harmony long forgotten.
The world lost its momentum, folding inward as though time itself had grown weary.
Out of the fracture came entities of chaos. They were not alive, nor were they dead. They devoured not to end things, but to bind them in unfinished states.
There was no more birth.
No more endings.
And still—
No release came.
That was the true horror. Even death was gone.
Existence froze at the threshold, trapped in a loop where pain could never resolve.
A warrior struck down, heart pierced, lungs drowning in blood—yet he did not cross into silence. His body remained locked at the moment of collapse, his agony eternal.
A beast crushed beneath a mountain lay splintered, ribs shattered, jaws locked in a howl without end.
Forests burned but never turned to ash.
Oceans swelled but never swallowed.
Life was unkillable.
Death was nonexistent.
Existence was a wound that would never close.
One pantheon convened in the void, the endless dark between stars, to decide what must be done.
The others did not come. Some out of fear. Some out of pride. Most out of indifference.
So it fell to these few to bear the weight of unending existence—and choose whether to end it.
Where they gathered, you ask?
It was a wound in the fabric of existence, neither place nor time. A rift where thought itself bled.
They gathered in fractured silence, their forms barely visible against the dark—a faint glimmer of power in a vast nothingness.
As usual, the great architects could not agree.
"I say we leave it as it is," Kireth said, his molten form burning with fierce light.
"No. We cannot." Nyx'Thar's shadows coiled tighter. "Push them to ruin, and we unravel with them."
"Only the weak among us would falter!" Kireth spat, his heat warping the void.
Vael, cold as ice, interrupted. "The strongest among us sacrificed the most. You would not simply slumber, Kireth—you would drift for aeons. Never to awaken."
Kireth's embers flickered. "And what would you propose, dear Vael?"
Vael's form shimmered, disdain in her words. "We create something to restore balance. A force to counter the endless growth we unleashed."
"And if it fractures again?" Nyx'Thar's voice coiled like a noose. "Do you think the second spiral will leave anything behind?"
The room fell silent at his words. The name Auronithis hung like a curse in the air.
Eryos, massive and wise, rumbled. "Auronithis was born of pride, of our hunger for control. This is different. It must be."
"You call it different?" Nyx'Thar's tone sharpened. "That's what we said last time. And we bled for it."
The debate raged on, but then—
"Enough!" Malekai boomed, silencing all. His voice was a blade cutting through the storm.
"This stalemate serves no one. We require precision. Call the Moirai."
The room shuddered. "The Moirai?" Kireth hissed.
"This is madness," Eryos muttered.
"Reconsider that sentence, Eryos." Malekai didn't raise his voice—but the void bent a little closer.
"Yes," Eryos whispered. "Forgive me… I spoke too freely."
And then, a voice—sweet, sorrowful, older than stars—whispered through the void.
"Did you begin the feast without us?"
The Moirai had arrived.
Three sisters who wove fate swept in like a breeze of silk and knives. Their forms shimmered in hues beyond mortal comprehension.
The Moirai do not lie—but they never tell the whole truth. Their loom has never stilled since the First Dawn.
It is said that when they wove the first strand of life, they wove the last alongside it.
They are not gods. Time itself kneels before them.
"Ah, such gloom," Clotho purred, her smile revealing sharp teeth. She drifted toward Kireth, her cold gaze curious. "Still clinging to your ancient fire, Kireth? How small it has become."
She attacked the weakest link.
"Leave him be, Clotho," Lachesis, the second sister, teased, her fingers trailing Vael's shimmering form. "Vael, my dear, you seem brittle. Stress weighs heavily on you?"
Atropos, the third sister, remained silent. Always the quiet one—impulse controlled and movements calculated.
She moved through the chamber like a shadow, her gaze cutting through the void with precision.
At the chamber's centre, Atropos flicked her fingers, and Malekai's oppressive aura shattered. The air stilled.
Malekai was powerful, but their power was different. It was… Fate.
"Enough of this play," Atropos said, her voice slicing the stillness. "You summoned us. Speak your need."
Malekai moved forward, unflinching.
"The balance of creation is broken. Life spirals out of control. We require… a counterbalance."
"A counterbalance," Clotho echoed, her voice thick with amusement. "How dramatic."
She circled him like a predator, eyes gleaming. "And what, mighty Malekai, would this counterbalance be? A kindly spirit to ease mortals into slumber? Or something… darker?"
Lachesis joined in her laughter—a melody both cruel and beautiful. "You summon us for solutions? You, the shapers of realms? The great have truly fallen."
Atropos raised a hand. Silence.
She studied Malekai for a long moment, her gaze heavy and unyielding.
"It can be done," she said, her voice final. "But there is a cost."
Malekai didn't flinch.
"We will pay it."
Atropos's lips curled into a smile—mournful and merciless.
"You misunderstand. The price is not ours to name."
Her voice rang through the void, ancient and unavoidable.
"It will reveal itself in time. When it does, there will be no bargaining, no resistance. You will accept it. You will endure it."
The entities hesitated.
Even the greatest among them—creators of realms, singers of stars—knew better than to trifle with the Moirai's bargains. Fate was fragile.
But the rot of unchecked life festered in creation, and even pride must bend to necessity.
Malekai understood. He wasn't a leader for power alone. With a quiet bow, he spoke.
"So be it."
The Moirai smiled, serene yet unsettling. Clotho clapped her hands together, the sound like thunder in the void.
"Wonderful. Then let us begin."
It was like a dance performance these sisters had been waiting for.
Lachesis gestured toward the gathered entities, her fingers weaving through the air. "Bring us the darkness, the destruction, the chaos that festers in your realms. Every fragment, every whisper of it. We will shape it into your salvation—or," she added lightly, "your ruin."
With reluctance and great effort, the entities extended the darkest parts of their realms toward the centre of the chamber. Shadows of despair, sorrow, and malevolence spiraled into a vortex of raw energy. The void quivered under the immense pressure of the forces.
The Moirai circled the vortex, their hands weaving intricate patterns. Their voices rose in a chant that resonated through the void. The energy pulsed, taking form—a towering figure of writhing shadows and pure chaos, her features sharp and undefined, as though reality itself struggled to contain her.
As the process neared its climax, the vortex grew unstable, its edges fraying. A tremor rippled through the void, and a crack appeared—a flaw.
The Moirai exchanged glances, their serene expressions unchanged. A faint glimmer of amusement flickered in Clotho's eyes.
"Interesting," Lachesis murmured.
From the crack, a fragment of raw, chaotic energy streaked through the void, vanishing into the mortal realms—unseen, unclaimed, untethered. None noticed. Most turned away.
But Atropos's gaze lingered, sharp and knowing. A smirk touched her lips.
She said nothing.
For now, the shaping of fate demanded their attention.
In the centre of the chamber, a figure took form—terrible, radiant, inevitable.
Her skin gleamed like moonstone, her hair divided between silver and black, night and starlight entwined in a single braid. Her eyes mirrored ruin and remembrance, shifting as though reality itself strained to contain her.
In whispers that were not yet spoken, she was called the Twin Veils. To meet her gaze was to feel time fracture, every heartbeat dragging the weight of eternity.
Then she opened her mouth.
What escaped was not a word, but a cry—raw, primal, shattering. It tore through the void.
And in that instant, the cosmos shifted.
The stars trembled in their orbits.
Mountains sagged, rivers slowed, forests bowed their heads.
Broken bodies stilled. Flames finally turned ash. The endless spiral of life cracked.
The universe itself seemed to sigh in relief, a whisper passing through all things:
Thank you.
It was not a sound for mortal or immortal ears. The entities fell to their knees, trembling beneath its weight. Even Malekai crumbled before her power.
Only the Moirai remained standing, their expressions calm.
Clotho smiled. "There she is."
Lachesis's voice was soft, almost reverent. "The counterbalance."
Atropos stepped forward, her gaze fixed on the figure. "She is what you asked for. A force to end what cannot be ended. To bring meaning to the endless spiral."
The being's gaze swept over the kneeling entities, her presence oppressive yet magnetic. She spoke, her voice a deep, resonant sound that felt like the cosmos folding into itself.
"What… am I?"
The words echoed through the void, unmaking existence. Malekai faltered, his essence weakening. Eryos's light flickered violently before dimming. Kireth's flames extinguished.
"Enough of this petty spectacle," Clotho said with disdain, watching the destruction around her.
"Indeed," Lachesis murmured, smoothing the folds of her robe, her movements too precise. "They beg for gifts they do not understand and wither beneath their own desires."
Atropos smirked, sweeping her gaze over the crumpled entities. "Ruins playing at godhood."
With a snap of her fingers, Clotho silenced the overwhelming weight of the new entity's voice.
After all, 'Fate' and 'End' were of the same force. The room stilled instantly, and the entities gasped for relief, their forms slowly regaining their strength.
Yet the being did not move. Her head tilted slightly, as if listening.
The names given to her—counterbalance, ending, sorrow—drifted through the air, and with each one her form shimmered, refining..
Malekai rose first, unsteadily, his aura flickering. "That sound… It wasn't power. It was collapse, weaponized."
Clotho tilted her head, a smile on her lips. "That, dear Malekai, is the voice of endings."
"Her essence is woven from the sorrow of forgotten stars, the unanswered wishes of dying worlds, and the despair buried in time itself," Lachesis intoned, stepping beside her sister with a languid grace. "Every word she speaks bears the weight of inevitability, the slow pull of what cannot be escaped. It is not power as you understand it—it is the stillness that follows all things.
Atropos spoke last, her gaze sharp. "She is raw—born of chaos, destruction, and sorrow. Did you think she'd come quietly?" She turned, smirking faintly. "Or did you imagine her simple, like the mortals you shaped so carelessly?"
The being's lips parted. A whisper slipped—too soft for words, more vibration than sound. Language finding itself.
Malekai bristled, but he said nothing. His gaze returned to the counterbalance, who stood motionless, her form exuding a quiet dominance.
Eryos asked hesitantly, "If her presence alone can unravel us, how can we ensure she doesn't unmake everything?"
Clotho laughed lightly. "Don't worry, little light. She won't destroy the realms—not unless it is time for them to end."
"Her voice is a tool," Lachesis added. "It will not always overwhelm. With time, she will learn to wield it."
Atropos stepped forward, meeting Malekai's gaze. "She is the counterbalance you asked for. Creation always demands sacrifice."
The counterbalance stood motionless. Listening. Learning. When Atropos spoke of sacrifice, her gaze lingered, as if weighing the word.
Malekai's jaw tightened, but he nodded, accepting their truth.
Nyx'Thar watched, his memory stirring.
Once, he had shaped a secret creation, meant as a gift, an anchor against chaos, delicate and precise.
But fate does not yield to mere gods.
His gift was swallowed… and devoured.
By Auronithis.
And now this… this thing they birthed—another being born of balance, yet crafted from chaos?
It was too close. The same pattern, the same blind hope.
"Again. Again, we flirt with oblivion. You think it won't spiral? That this one won't slip through our fingers like the last?" he snarled. "You didn't watch it unravel from the inside. I did. I built it—and I buried it. I won't do it again."
A heavy silence followed.
The counterbalance did not flinch.
She tilted her head, studying Nyx'Thar with eyes that shimmered. For the first time, something passed across her face—recognition, faint but undeniable. A spark, as though his words had awakened not knowledge, but memory.
Lachesis stepped forward, "Careful, Nyx'Thar. You forget—you were the spark that lit the first spiral."
Her words hung in the air like ash from a dying star. There was no accusation in her tone, only fact. No malice. Just inevitability.
The counterbalance began moving inward, her presence pressing against the edges of reality.
Her silence was no longer ignorance. It was decision.
Then, in a voice both terrifying and beautiful, she spoke:
"I am…"
The void ruptured. Not a sound, but a shatter. Reality cracked. Space bent.
Ancient beings recoiled.
The Moirai alone remained still.
As though they had always known this would happen.
"Do you feel it now?" Nyx'Thar's voice frayed, hollow with dread. "This is how the spiral begins—quiet, then devouring."
Yet she did not devour. She stood unmoving at the eye of the collapse,
Then—softly—so softly it bent the silence around it—she added:
"I remember… echoes. Hunger that wasn't mine."
The words cut through the chaos like the calm eye of a collapsing star.
The Moirai stilled.
Lachesis froze mid-weave.
The entities shifted, uneasy. Malekai's jaw tightened. One hand curled into a slow, controlled fist—then, just for a moment, his gaze flicked to Atropos. Searching. Weighing. Fearing.
But Atropos said nothing—only watched.
Nyx'Thar didn't move. His shadows curled tighter like a beast preparing to flee—or strike.
Not because she was unstable.
But because she wasn't.
And that was far worse.
And then, with a quiet finality, she closed the book.
Snap.
"The end," whispered the woman, her voice a soft echo in the candlelit room. The book rested in her lap, warm from the telling.
She leaned forward, brushing a few strands of hair from her son's face as he lay beneath the covers, eyes wide and gleaming with wonder.
"Mama," he whispered, voice hushed. "What's her name? You didn't say it."
A small smile tugged at her lips, "Time for bed, Damian. We can talk about it tomorrow."
He nodded, stifling a yawn. "Okay, Mama. Goodnight."
"Good night, my little star."
She pressed a warm kiss to his forehead, then rose, tucking the book under her arm. She crossed the room, dimming the light.
Click.